Poems by Moira Magneson
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King Fire
by Moira Magneson
From Canary Fall 2021
Along with gray foxes, quail, mule deer, and coyotes, Moira lives on a parcel of clay-red earth in the Sierra foothills. An ephemeral creek threads through her land, a reminder of the nature of impermanence.
I tramp the dead
dry creek bed
boots sinking
into ash.
What is
holy here?
There are no
visible bones—
I must be
breathing in their dust—
no bodies,
neither squirrel scramble,
nor crow caw,
or flashing white
rump of bounding deer.
No silver minnow
or jumping frog.
No skink slipping
in underbrush. No
bird or leafsong
Only this
congregation of ghosts,
blackclacking fir
and broken
oak bowing
before a blue
unblinking eye.
© Moira Magneson
Owling
by Moira Magneson
From Canary Spring 2022
The naturalist took us owling
at twilight up in the green hills
of American Canyon. I knew
the place—a deep cleft in the land horse
stables dairies. We stopped
at a stand of eucalyptus. A fine
rain coming down. I could hear the river
of cars running parallel on the interstate—
swoosh swoosh swoosh
We were told a Great Horned owl lived
nearby high in the oily bushy menthol.
I scanned the treetops.
The man pulled a little bundle from his trouser
pocket—a field mouse tethered
with a long leash of string.
Anchored to a heavy stone
the tiny creature took off
scurrying to the end of her world
where she stopped short quaking. Our guide
giddy with the certain telos
of his design the owl descending
from his perch a terrible winged minotaur. But there
on the earth tangled in twine the bird also
suffered whirlwind gathered up
with leather gloves metal band crimped
on his leg identified accounted for let go.
I turned walked back to the truck got in
huddled on the passenger side waited
and wondered for all our lives—what marvels
we were wild innocent damned.
© Moira Magneson
road trip
—for Mo DeCoursey
by Moira Magneson
From Canary Summer 2021
we’d had enough of it your dad
a sack of bones mine a floating fine
particulate snowing on Los Angeles
weyward sisters we fled our dead and dying
left that quaking world behind flew
up the coast in the old Dodge Dart
blue Naugahyde seats stacked with boating
gear & books the Gipsy Kings' guitars
wailed on the radio you rolled
a joint we smoked it to the butt
cut our losses with each toke
lit up into late afternoon
giddy we laughed at the great
cosmic joke morphine drips bedpans
spattered in bile & shit & bits
of lung we'd seen the cells' mad savaging
our fathers come undone
anything was possible
strung out along the pavement the wheel-flung
roadside promenade creatures' lives interrupted
in their crossing
for the next 100 miles we snapped
photos of ourselves stopped beside the slaughter—
possums mice a brindled cat the flattened
stink of skunk a rat without a tail a fox
an owl a rattlesnake a hawk the long
stilled cacophony of howl & song—
what kind of daughter was I? where had I gone wrong?
the sun dropped behind the hills
one last shot you begged I shook my head
no, this was too much misery
but you insisted swerved onto the shoulder
& I stepped out once more this time
to an oily blackened mass impossible
to tell what it had been yet I lay down closed
my eyes let my fingers sink in traced the blown
gone body smashed bone & fur & skin
a fly’s bright buzz criss-crossed my eye padded
the pillow of my cheek strange tenderness
in the picture you took I am asleep
head tipped back to the black
dark matter such utter
ravaged formlessness
your voice called from far beyond
we've got to go c'mon
& I awoke eyes opened
to the last surrendered light stood up brushed
off the gravel & the grass walked to the car
climbed in & we drove north
astonished forsaken windows rolled down
to the sea FM station fading in and out
the night road's unraveling melody
© Moira Magneson